Page 41 of The New Godfather

I take that tight pink bud into my mouth as if I’ve been starving for years. My lips close around one nipple and suck hard enough to pull a sharp moan from her throat. She arches into me, back bowing, fingers threading into my hair. My tongue swirls, teasing the sensitive peak until it’s swollen and glistening. I graze my teeth over it gently, just enough to make her gasp, then soothe the sting with my tongue again. I move to the other breast, devouring it with the same relentless hunger: sucking, licking, kissing every inch of soft skin I can reach. She tastes warm. Sweet.

Addictive.

My hands roam everywhere. I grip her hips hard, fingers digging into the soft flesh, then slide up her ribs, thumbs brushing the sensitive undersides of her breasts. I cup them, squeeze them gently, feeling their weight in my palms while my mouth continues its worship. Every moan she utters goes straight to my cock.

She trembles wildly under my hands, breathing fast and shallow, her body responding so perfectly to every touch. I love how she opens for me, how her guarded coolness cracks open and melts to a puddle the second I put my mouth on her. That tells me she is mine.

Then my fingers brush the inside of her upper arm, and she flinches. Immediately, I glance down, and that’s when I see it.

A red bruise. Dark. Ugly. Fresh. Finger-shaped.

Everything inside me stops. My mouth freezes against her breast. My heart slams to a halt. The world narrows to that mark — the exact shape of someone else’s fingers pressed into her skin. Mario’s fingers.

Rage surges through me. It doesn’t explode. It doesn’t shout. It settles deep in my bones like ice. It is the kind of rage that is lethal. It plans. It calculates. It promises violence so thorough the other person will never recover.

My hands stay gentle on her — always gentle with her — but my whole body has gone completely still. I can feel her chest rising and falling fast beneath my palms, her breath still ragged from what I was doing to her a few seconds ago. She doesn’t need to wonder why I stopped so suddenly. She knows.

My thumb brushes over the bruise lightly, feather-soft, tracing the exact places where his fingers dug in. Memorizing them. Burning them into my memory so I know exactly where to start when I deal with him.

My mind is already moving ahead with its dark, cold calculations. Exactly what I’m going to do to Mario for daring to put his hands on what belongs to me. How slow it will be. How permanent. But right now, I force the monster back down. I can’t let it break free in front of her. I don’t want her to fear me. Ever.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

VIOLA

Shame hits me like ice water.

I was completely lost in him. His mouth was hot and demanding on my breast, sending sharp, electric jolts straight between my legs. I’d arched into him with a broken moan, fingers tightening in his hair, desperate to have him closer. The pleasure was thick and overwhelming, flooding my body until I could barely think. Then he stopped.

When my eyes find his face, his gaze is fixed on the bruise on my arm, and his whiskey gold is almost black with fury.

“He did this to you today?” His voice is so cold it feels like I’m talking to a different person entirely.

I swallow hard, my throat tight. “He just tried to get my attention… but I wouldn’t give it.”

I can feel the tension radiating off him, but he lifts his gaze to meet mine, those intense eyes searching my face.

“Does it hurt?”

I shake my head quickly. “No.”

He exhales through his nose, jaw tight. “I hate that you’re protecting him.”

“I’m not protecting him,” I say, the words coming out faster than I intend. My voice is still shaky with passion. “It’s just… I don’t—” I stop. The rest of the sentence feels too revealing. Too dangerous.

He waits, patient but unrelenting. His thumb brushes lightly over the bruise again, so gentle it almost breaks me. “You just don’t want what?”

My chest feels tight, like everything I’ve been holding back is pushing against my ribs. “I don’t want you to get hurt in the process. I know you can take care of yourself, but it only takes one second and… I just got into this arrangement with you, and I’m kinda liking it…”

“Ah…” he says softly and then he smiles.

The amusement softens the hard lines around his eyes. I’m so surprised I manage an unsure smile back, my lips trembling a little.

“You need me alive so you can taste my famous grilled cheese?” he teases.

“Yes,” I whisper. I’m amazed at how much of a sense of humor he has. For someone I once thought was colder than ice. At this moment, I realize I’m seeing a version of him that no one else ever gets to see. The real Ricci. The one who tenderly dries my hair, who offers to make me grilled cheese and tomato soup, who laughs with me.

He chuckles suddenly — a low, genuine sound that vibrates through his chest and into mine. The sound does something dangerous to my heart. Then he pulls me closer, one big hand sliding to the back of my neck, and he kisses me so hard it leaves me dizzy. His mouth claims mine, deep and possessive, tongue sliding against mine like he’s trying to taste every secret I’m still keeping. I melt into it, fingers curling into his shirt, a soft whimper escaping me.